


Honey Don't Feed It, It Will Come Back

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Excessive use of metaphors and symbols, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Kissing, M/M, Mind Meld, Monster!Elias, Non-Explicit Sex, Touch-Starved, Very slight dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24528967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Don't give it a hand, offer it a soulHoney, make this easy"The beast within Elias is awakened by hunger, and Jonathan happens to cross his path.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	Honey Don't Feed It, It Will Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> So....Jonelias.  
> I do love those Monster!Jon stories, but when you get an itch to write something you can't really help yourself.  
> And it's inspired by Hozier, because why wouldn't it be.

_Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul_

_Honey, make this easy_

_Leave it to the land, this is what it knows_

_Honey, that's how it sleeps_

_Don't let it in with with no intention to keep it_

_Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it_

_Honey don't feed it, it will come back_

Jon shouldn’t be here. He should not be standing outside the old office door, the door that proudly proclaims “Head of the Magnus Institute,” thus marking itself as the most important entryway in the whole building. Jon is stood unnaturally still, his worn oxfords pointed right at the entrance to Elias’s domain, but he should, under no circumstances, be here. He doesn’t know it, but he Knows it. He feels it waft about in the stagnant air and trickle down his spine, the little pieces of knowledge like new eyes opening, blooming upon his skin.

The door is very slightly cracked open, Jon notes. Inside is dim and dark and most definitely _not_ inviting, yet he does not turn away. Why would he? He can still hear it creeping around the corners of his mind, a wolf searching for prey, for weakness. The call is undeniably powerful. Jon finds he has not the strength to defy it.

Oh damn him and his infernal curiosity.

The inside of the office is very much like he remembers it being the last few times Elias has summoned him up here. Impeccably tidy, tastefully decorated if a little nondescript. One would not by first glance assume it belonged to the Head of an institution studying the paranormal.

However, said Institution Head is nowhere to be seen. There is simply no trace of Elias, not even the gentlest fading scent of his cologne, the one that for whatever godforsaken reason stubbornly clings to Jon’s clothing each time he spends a moment longer than ten minutes in Elias’s company.

Jon scans the dim room, squinting at whichever shadow catches his eye before letting go an internal sigh of relief, and continuing his endeavors. Whatever had called to him didn’t seem to be in the room any longer, not in plain sight at the very least. It certainly couldn’t have been Elias, the man had most likely gone home, and Jon was making quite a fool of himself. Not that there was anybody else to witness his foolishness.

He should leave, really. Go back to his messy flat and spend another restless night tossing and turning like child in the claws of a severe fever. Be a reasonable adult, and not a skittish fool sneaking around his employer’s personal office at 8 o’clock in the evening.

That’s when he happens to glance at the window, on the opposing side of the room. Or the alarming lack of a window, to be exact. In its place there sits a gaping hole lined with razor sharp edges, showing a sliver of the darkened heavens and nightly London.

Jon perks up, and strides over to the window with haste, barely blinking.

What he finds on the floor beneath the window, no longer blocked by the bulk of Elias’s desk, is an absolute mess. Shards of jagged glass litter the carpet, along with smears of a dark red substance Jon immediately recognizes the moment his nostrils flare up in disgust. _Blood_.

Jon’s mind is hurtling down the highway of his thoughts with the speed of summer lighting, but his body is frozen like a thief caught red-handed. He cannot move, he can barely breathe unconstricted as his eyes drink up the scene before him, trying to comprehend its absurdity. The window is way too high, very few things could’ve crashed through it, and Jon would have spotted them lying among the chaos of blood and glass.

He turns his gaze towards the maws of the broken window, lined with glass teeth.

There, snagged between a few shards, rests a fine, shimmering white feather. It appears so, well, out of place and _wrong._ Unwitting power seeps into his mind like poison, and he Knows the owner of the feather is no earthly bird.

Then the room goes dark, for the briefest of moments. A mighty gust of air barrels through the window and knocks straight into the poor stick of a man standing within, throwing him off balance. The distinct, shrill sound of glass shattering echoes throughout the no-longer-forlorn office.

And Jonathan Sims hardly has time to inhale in shock, much less shout in pitiful fear, as two dreadfully strong arms capture his form, clutching him against a chest he notes feels vaguely human. Then a vicious agony assaults his head, spearing through his entire being as consciousness is torn screaming from him.

___________

There is no state of existence safer than being wrapped all around in warmth, a caterpillar cocooned in affection, waiting for the spring light to summon it from its slumber. Or perhaps a peaceful forest creature, sleeping the winter away tucked into its nest.

However, this cocoon is overwhelming, trapping and smothering it's unfortunate occupant with a suffocating heat, and the power of an otherworldly gaze.

And a nest of such frightful design usually belongs to the monstrous being who made it.

It is because of the force of the heat and the invasion of eyes upon him that Jonathan eventually awakens.

His thoughts are still wrapped in grogginess, his limbs resisting all attempts at movement. There is nothing in this unknown space beyond warmth and _eyes, eyes, a multitude of horrendous eyes, all upon him him him alone. He is finally awake yes yes yes he is needed he is wanted._

Jon jerks up in a hasty, unplanned motion, only to be stilled by a powerful grip. He is then unceremoniously pushed face first back into the plush surface he is resting on, which he finds to be a vintage sofa. The fabric of the furniture smells oddly familiar, very pleasant, it smells like-

"Elias"

Hands surge out towards him once more, turning him around and throwing him back down. The manhandling knocks the breath out of Jon, and he shakily glances up at his assailant.

What he finds is…. _distressing_ , for a lack of a better expression.

Jon finds himself face to face with Elias.

Or it _should_ be Elias. It _is_ Elias. But the sight of him only makes Jon’s mind whirl around like helpless laundry in a washing machine, his breath shallow and eyes wide.

The man, if he could be called that, before him bears the features of Elias Bouchard. But he appears more disheveled than Jon could ever have imagined Elias would be, with greying blond strands of hair thrown about in a windswept mess, white dress shirt torn and hanging limply from his shoulders.

And upon his back, arching over both of them, are enormous white wings, wings of shimmering white feathers, and the feathers are coated all over with _eyes._

So, so, so many eyes, different shapes and sizes and colours and each and every one of them is fixated on _Jon_ , drinking in his confusion, his terror, each distressed breath that leaves his aching lungs. Tearing him open, abusing his vulnerable state and dragging all that Jon was, is, and will be into their line of sight.

The eyes on Elias’s face are what terrify Jon the most. Those oh so familiar calculating eyes, blue and proud and smug and _wild_ and _hungry._

Elias looks positively feral. A beast, a creature that desires nothing more than to sink its teeth into Jon’s tender, still very human flesh and feast on him.

A low, melodious chuckle leaves the throat of the beastly man, vibrations in the tense air between them, a cord cinched too tight.

“And feast I shall, my dear Archivist. I assume you rested well?”

Elias’s voice is so rather unfairly composed for how haggard he looks. Jon’s lips taste like salt and dry skin as he stammers out, “W-what, what is- what _happened_ to you Elias?”

“Hmm, an interesting question to pose, though I suppose not an unexpected one.”

Elias pauses, and smiles a languid sort of smile at Jon, but there is a tightness behind his gaze. An urgency that does not go unnoticed by Jon’s emerging powers. Elias is in need of something.

“Simply put,” he continues, “I have been rather, ah, _famished_ as of late. And well, a beast in hunger can hardly contain his monstrosity. Even I must bow down to that rule.”

Elias reaches out a hand, stroking down the side of Jon’s face, cupping his tense jaw.

“My ever-curious Archivist, answering my call, led by his need for knowledge right into my office. I unfortunately couldn’t contain the beast enough to stop myself from snatching you up.” There is no actual regret in Elias’s statement, his tone full of amusement, along with a touch of affection and possession. Jon decides he wants push the thought on a faulty raft and let it drown in the oceans where it rose from.

Frustration claws at Jon’s throat. Bestial or not, Elias still possesses the horribly inconvenient habit of keeping information from others when they need it the most.

“I-I see. Then, uh, what happens now?”

Elias’s eyes fall half-lidded, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I think you and I both know the answer to that, Jonathan.”

Jon frowns and pretends not to notice the tiny thrill of pleasure as Elias’s hands begin to stroke down his neck, petting his chest with long, elegant fingers. His right hand slips underneath his shirt, grips the hem, and tugs. It is a query, a choice, and Jon Knows precisely what is being asked of him.

Once more, he knows he should not stay here. He should struggle free from Elias’s clutches and flee for the door and never return to this nest of eyes and odd affection. But he won’t.

Jon is a mess of mortification, frustration, fear and that ever bothersome _curiosity_. His inner turmoil twists and turns as a tempest of the deepest black, drawing him in too many directions and hypothetical outcomes.

Elias’s wings arch closer, wrap tighter around them like a cage of soft feathers and voyeuristic entities, entrapping Jon beneath the gazes of dozens of glowing eyes.

The thrill that he feels from being beheld by them is unlike any other he has ever experienced.

With a shaky motion powered by terror and entrancement, Jon nods, reaching out his own dark hand and tracing a soft line against one of Elias’s wings, around an eye glowing amber in the dusky room. The feathers are as soft as silk, like the gentle caress of a warm breeze.

Elias lets out an animalistic growl, pupils dilating with desire, and with the strength and want of a famished monster he traps Jon beneath him, his mouth viciously latching itself onto Jon’s own. Jon gasps, lips parting in a silent noise of distressed delight.

The kiss is a tidal wave of molten heat like magma bursting from the Earth’s veins. It crawls into each crevice of Jon’s startled mouth, Elias’s tongue as its Harbinger. His tongue is merciless in its onslaught, oh so luxuriously _good_ and greedy as it pushes deeper. 

Jon writhes underneath Elias, hands flailing about as he uselessly tries to find an anchor from the sensuality of it all. He has never been kissed with such hunger, such terrible _ardour_ , and the waves of sensation that crash over him threaten to take his conscious mind with them, drag it down to the depths of murky, boiling hot water.

Then Elias leans back, dozens of eyes gleaming, breath coming out in harsh bursts of warmth on Jon’s starved flesh. He pauses and seems to freeze for a brief second, as if admiring Jon in his half-debauched state. The fingers of his right hand, adorned with a few ridiculously expensive rings, are drawing incomprehensible shapes unto Jon’s skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Jon whines, prey caught and captured by a predator, yet as Elias takes down his defenses with clever tongue and knowing hands he unravels like yarn in his arms, his mind and body singing a hymn of satisfaction at the other man’s affections.

“E-Elias, please. Please.”

He wants his touch. He wants to be close to _someone,_ wants to be held in Elias’s possessive embrace as all other things melt away, wants to forget the universe has ever existed outside this odd cocoon he’s trapped in. For that, he’s willing to feed the monster. Both that of himself and his Watcher.

Elias grants Jon his wish.

Jon doesn’t notice when exactly the connection forms. For all he knows, it has always been there, binding him and Elias together, intertwining their lives and choices together in this twisting tango of fate that they dance, with steps both kind and cruel.

His mind fills up like a glass, as Elias pries open the gates of his consciousness and pours in the liquid ambrosia of knowledge. Jon feels all Elias feels in that moment, but does he really, since who can say where Jon’s thoughts end and those of Elias begin. The beads of knowledge churn and glow like a million horrible stars and Jon Knows all their anguish, their famine, their jealous rage and their sick ecstasy as they sink into him.

He has the vague, passing thought that those emotions belong to Elias when amidst the invasive horror in his head, he feels another kind of sensation, only physical. This is a connection as well, one of a completely different kind. A carnal, burning communion that draws a keening sound from Jon as the last of his defensive barriers are penetrated. They crumble to the ground and disappear, even as Jon attempts to cling onto them with teeth and nails alike.

_How curious. Such a strange sensation_.

Then the winds of a hurricane rip into him, and along with them, the molten waves of magma. They twist and turn, push and pull in a relentless tug-of-war, and Jon’s mind and body are caught between them. His head fills up with starry skies made of eyes, with dirt and bugs and webs and darkness and flesh and teeth and blood and spirals and storms and death.

From somewhere so far away, a distant song of comfort, Elias’s voice resounds in Jon’s thoughts. He says things, little words of praise and love and pleasure. _Mine, My beloved Jon, Beautiful, Beautiful Archivist, You belong to me._ His voice so deep and husky that Jon has to wonder how he looks, wrapped around Jon, melded with him in such a dramatic manner.

Finally, the glass that is the mind of Jonathan Sims overflows. His consciousness draws a blank white nothing, a pure canvas, all sounds escaping, fleeing to their cracks and silencing his thoughts. He burns, oh he burns like the Sun, yet freezes like the deep cold corners of space, he feels whole and filled and empty and distant.

In the last few moments of conscious thought he whispers a name he doesn’t recognize on his lips.

\----------

Pain is a spear with a brutally sharp edge, that cackles in diabolical glee as it buries itself in the flesh of innocents.

It has buried itself in every possible nook and cranny of Jon’s poor body as his consciousness dawns, and in the misty haze of an arriving morning is where he finds himself.

There is a weight around his midsection, sturdy and unyielding, grounding him into place. The wings, the eyes, the famished need, all of it is gone, washed away as the moon waned behind the clouds. The aftermath is bittersweet, like sugar and lime juice on Jon’s tongue.

He draws in a long, well-deserved breath. He is alive, he is well, he has all limbs intact. Despite the soreness, he feels, very simply, _good_.

“Quite a night, wasn’t it?”

Elias has awakened, still holding Jon tight in arms that have returned to being completely human. On the surface level at least, and for now, that’s enough for Jon.

“Yes, _quite a night_ , Elias. I’m surprised you didn’t gobble me up on sight.”

Elias hums a deep laughter from his throat, which Jon can’t help but find comforting. The blond man seems to have that effect on him.

“I wouldn’t do such a thing to my darling Archivist, now would I.”

Ah, the infamous title, rolling off of Elias’s tongue in a manner Jon won’t admit he has grown to enjoy. That leads Jon’s thoughts to another rather pressing issue at hand.

“Elias? What does, well, all of _this_ make us? How do we continue forward?”

They can’t continue on like nothing has happened. Jon is a master at denial, at pretending, but the happenings of the past twenty four hours or so cannot simply be blown away like dead autumn leaves. 

Elias tips his head to the side as if in thought, taps his finger on his chin, and then leans back down towards Jon’s left ear

“I’m afraid the beast in me has grown quite fond of you, Jon.”

Then he settles back into the depths of the pillows and covers pooling around them, dragging Jon down with him. Jon huffs out an annoyed sigh, but doesn’t protest, opting to instead tuck his head under Elias’s chin.

As he listens to the methodical beat of Elias’s heart, he knows this pattern of strange lovemaking will most likely repeat itself someday.

After all, now that he has fed the beast, it will come back for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading, and for standing my terrible habit of using language like it's a bunch of cake batter I can beat with my fists into a mold of my liking.


End file.
